Half-Cocked
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: Sherlock looked at the things glistening on the table. So this was something John was into. Sherlock was unsurprised. John had been extensively bedded. It didn't take a deductive genius to figure out that a man with a wide sexual experience would like to experience many…wide things. Sherlock, however, was pretty sure he didn't like the things glistening on the table. Then again...
1. Chapter 1

**Half-Cocked**

They were just lying there on the kitchen table, innocent as you please.

Sherlock Holmes took one step back.

Contrary to what people believe, Sherlock gets scared. He's scared when he jumps from one fire escape to another, scared as a suspect swings at him with a nail-studded cricket bat, and he's scared—just a bit, only a really little bit, almost infinitesimal—of disappointing John just months into their romantic relationship.

Most of the time Sherlock deals with his fears by outrunning them. If you leap before you look, shout before you duck, and turn your own domineering temperament on yourself, you can noisily bull your way right past most of what frightens you.

This is less easy to accomplish when the thing of which you're frightened is lying on the kitchen table, winking at you as it catches low morning light.

Sherlock took another step back. He felt a spurt of adrenaline prickle his skin. Sherlock's fond of adrenaline. Of spurts, too come to think of it (reflexively Sherlock's mind went to the place on John that…spurts; reflexively Sherlock breathed a little heavier).

Sherlock took a step forward.

So this was something John was into. Sherlock nodded, unsurprised. John had been extensively bedded. It didn't take a deductive genius to figure out that a man with a wide sexual experience would like to experience many…wide things.

And, as evidenced by their sudden appearance on the kitchen table this, apparently, was a thing John wanted to experience.

Sherlock took another step forward, until he was looking down at the unremarkable package on the kitchen table. It was unremarkable. It was a small, plain blister pack, inside of which three silver rings nested one in the other.

Despite having a sexual repertoire only as varied as thirteen weeks could make it, Sherlock knew what these were and what these were were cock rings. Sherlock was pretty sure he didn't like cock rings. Sherlock was especially pretty sure he especially didn't like cock rings like these.

They were circles of metal. Seamless metal. Unforgiving metal. _Call Lestrade and have him bring the chain cutters because this thing is seriously stuck _metal.

Sherlock took a step back. He was unconsciously clenching his thighs, a vague instinct of defense. His cock, however, did not feel defended. Judging from how tightly his balls were drawn to his now-sweating body, Sherlock's cock felt very vulnerable indeed.

And then there was a sudden stirring and that stirring was not in Sherlock's pants (partially because he wasn't wearing any). The stirring was John, in the bedroom, opening a bedside drawer—left one, the one on Sherlock's side of the bed. Sherlock counted the seconds.

_One, two, three…_ Right. John was not reaching for the tissues in Sherlock's bedside drawer, meaning John had not just finished wanking and was wishing to clean himself off.

…_four, five, six, seven, eight…_ The drawer closed. John had had to feel his way around inside, searching for a tube that tended to slide back into the recesses of the drawer. That meant John was reaching for the lube. And not just any lube.

No, John was reaching for the minty lube, the stuff that sort of burns but in a confusingly good way, a way that the body apparently interprets not really as pain but as sexual arousal.

John wasn't going to wank, if he was just going to wank he'd either have licked his palm a couple times or used the plain lube in _his_ bedside table.

No, John had the minty lube because John knew from ten days experience—they bought the stuff not two weeks previous simply because Sherlock likes mint-scented things—that Sherlock liked it. It hadn't seemed so when first applied. Sherlock had growled, "It burns," and then growled even lower, "leave it," when John tried wiping it off. It was then they realised Sherlock responds well to highly-fragrant sex aids that make his penis tingle.

This all meant that John was in the bedroom and in the mood, and he was hoping to get Sherlock in the mood.

Sherlock took another step toward the table.

Maybe John was in the mood for these, too. Sherlock's slight erection, which had been forming at the sound of the bedside drawer, flagged at the thought. Maybe if he hid them. Maybe if Sherlock did what he does and accidentally buried the rings under an experiment, or the burning remains of one, John would forget that he'd made this terrible purchase.

Then Sherlock's testicles could come out of his abdomen and his cock would stir again at the thought of minty freshness, and he and John would go on as they'd been going, doing a lot of things of which Sherlock was quickly becoming fond.

Then, after a few years, when John was feeling bored and Sherlock magnanimous, the good detective would maybe suggest sex toys of the cock ring nature. He'd pretend urbane knowledge and he'd have already bought a wide array of the things, an array that did not include seamless, cold, unforgiving, unbreakable _metal._

A finger brushed soft up the naked crack of Sherlock's arse and the good detective levitated three inches off the floor.

Everyone took a step—Sherlock forward, away from that unexpected finger, John also forward, in high apology.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry! You were a million miles away and I thought I'd tip-toe into your mind palace with, uh, my fingers."

Sherlock unclutched his breast, beneath which his stout heart pounded. He was beginning to long for a suspect and a nail-studded cricket bat.

"John," Sherlock began.

The man so named stilled, one hand on Sherlock's hip, the other reaching for his hand.

"John," Sherlock ended, feeling as if he'd said all that needed saying.

The good doctor blinked up at his just-thirteen-weeks lover and realised this was one of those times when Sherlock needed to say a whole lot but had not one fresh clue how to say it.

John said it for him. And got it wrong. "It's fine, I keep telling you it's fine love, we don't have to, ever, unless you want to. I'm…it's good."

_No, no, no._

John was not understanding. It would be an infrequent issue in their long and loving union, but an issue none-the-less. (Though not really, for already John had learned the best way to help Sherlock find his words was to _throw out some wrong ones.)_

"No, no, no," Sherlock said, clutching John's hands to his chest. "I want to, I want to much more than I thought I would. I want to when we're at the Yard, when we're in a cab, when you're watching telly in nothing but that awful green dressing gown. I want to almost always and on nearly everything but I don't want Lestrade here with bolt cutters because my penis is turning blue."

John Watson is a remarkable doctor, a sterling soldier, a really rather good amateur sleuth, but John's at his most brilliant as an interpreter of consulting detectives. That said and even so, it took the good doctor three seconds and one shift of a luscious hip—putting a previously blocked portion of the kitchen table into view—before John was able to say…

"Ooooh. Nooooo. No, Sherlock, no. Those aren't for you!"

So help him, Sherlock's first thought was that those fearsome rings were for some other man's privates. That adrenaline of which he's usually so fond shot through Sherlock cold, unwelcome, and on the tails of a kind of bark.

This being the first time (though not the last) that John heard that particular sound out of this particular man, the good doctor twitched, cementing Sherlock's certainties that John had erotic intentions toward another man's peni—

"Oh! No! They're not for someone else either!"

Sherlock was one lovely split second from a warm wash of relief and a fresh surge of sensuality when he realised the obvious: _He _was going to be the cause of _John's_ penis being strangled and turning blue. He was going to have to apply those wretched things to John's beautiful—

"Oh no, no, _no,_ Sherlock, the blasted things aren't ours."

Sherlock is nothing if not a thinker and so, still awash in a confusing mix of sexy hormones and fight-or-flight adrenaline, he used his thinking place to go off completely half cocked, yelling, "Mrs. Hudson!"

Scandalised, as if the woman in question had materialised before them in knee boots and surrounded by exotic dancing boys, both men stepped away from the table.

John regained his wits sooner and, so that this derailment would at last come to a crashing halt, began babbling many, many words.

"Sherlock Holmes, my beautiful sweet love who has the body of a god, the mouth of an archangel, and less common sense than god has given a deep sea sponge, those rings that rest upon our kitchen table are not meant to encircle your fetching penis. They are not meant for the penis of another. And they sure as fucking bloody hell are getting nowhere near my dick because let me tell you, I've seen what misapplied metal can do to tender skin and delicate capillaries and I promise you it will not—" John took a deep breath to stop himself, then began again.

"Sherlock, those cock rings are not for either of our penises, they are not an item Mrs. Hudson has bought for private use and then fetched up here and somehow forgotten. They are something far less alarming than that love. Can you guess what that something is?"

Ordinarily Sherlock would judge such a tone as one, condescending; two, annoying; and three, unworthy of reply. But even only a few months into this romance Sherlock knows a few things about his bedmate: one, the only time John will condescend to him is when Sherlock himself is being uh, condescendier. Two, the good doctor is often annoying but, three, he is always worthy of a reply.

So.

Sherlock began thinking with his thinking place again and within a split instant realised the dramatically obvious.

"They are Mr. Chatterjee's."

John reflected for the first time (though not the last) that Sherlock was pretty as a picture, smart as a whip, brilliant at a brilliant number of nuanced and rarified things—and that sometimes he had the insight of a brick.

John tipped forward until his forehead thunked against his sweetheart's sternum. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. The cock rings are not Mr. Chatterjee's. They are not Mrs. Hudson's. They are not yours and they are not mine. They are just one very simple thing, they—"

Sherlock clutched at the ripeness of his own bare back end, opened his mouth in a panic and John could not even _begin_ to visualise what Sherlock was visualising now.

No, instead John clapped a careful hand over another incipient bark and said quickly, "They are an accident Sherlock. They came along in an Amazon order _but I did not order them."_

John looked up into pale eyes over which big brows lofted, he wriggled the hand still held fast against Sherlock's chest. "Do you understand now?"

Sherlock nodded carefully, for Sherlock now understood many things.

He understood that John Watson was the only man in England—perhaps the entire United Kingdom—who would not have completely lost his mind in attempting to be Sherlock's lover.

He understood that he was extremely lucky to have found the only man in England—perhaps all of the UK—who could not only retain his sensibilities while being Sherlock's lover but who actually, you know, _wanted_ the post.

Sherlock also understood that his testicles were tentatively descending and his penis cautiously stirring.

And finally Sherlock understood one thing most emphatically: he understood that John had probably ordered something completely fantastic from Amazon.

Feeling the tiniest spike of adrenaline zinging through the bits of him that were tentatively descending and cautiously stirring, Sherlock released John's hand, pressed his naked body against his lover's similarly unclothed flesh and purred, "Oh?"

_First: There will be no pause in weekly postings of this already-completed story unless I'm abducted. Second, this was inspired by the lovely SweetLateJuliet, who received from Amazon not the innocent item she was expecting, but an austere little set of metal cock rings. Thank you dear Juliet, I hope you and yours didn't (or maybe did?) go off…half-cocked._


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson reflected for the first time (though not the last) that Sherlock's desire for him made him feel sexy as hell, ten feet tall and, sometimes, dim as dirt. Because, for the life of him he could not remember what he'd actually on purpose ordered from—

"Oh! Right! Yes!"

John's delight caused him to go suddenly straight-backed, which caused his penis to bang against the underside of Sherlock's cautiously stirring balls, which caused Sherlock's cock to throw caution to the wind and start leaking.

Which, so help him, John could smell. A heady, heavy scent to which John, three months in and far more than done for, was already addicted.

Wanting more of it, _much_ more, John looked Sherlock in the eye and lied his pretty arse off. "Nothing. I ordered…nothing. Just…books."

It was now Sherlock's turn to stand tall. He did so, and in so doing took a step back, sloe eyes gone sly. His penis, no longer fearing strangulation, rose to half mast at his lover's obvious lie, at his sweetheart's clear, unmistakable invitation to _deduce him._

Sherlock grinned and did something he never does with victims and corpses and suspects: He cupped John's chin in two big hands, he leaned close, and he tongued and _tasted_ his way to revelation, to the truth beneath John's prevarication.

And for a man who, with arm-waving verve, had not five minutes previous got _everything_ wrong, here got everything right.

Sherlock lipped John's neck, nosed up into his hair, tongued an ear. "Sex toys…" he began, back unconsciously bowing, bum unconsciously _presenting._

He licked John's skin, tasted salt. "No, not toys, not quite."

Sherlock nibbled at jaw, swiped warm and wet into a willing mouth. "Delicious," he murmured, tasting deep. He lapped again, sucked a fine lip, a squirming tongue, whispered, "Something…something…"

Sherlock stood tall, John's face still cupped in warm hands. "You're going to _feed_ me," he whispered.

John grinned, wondered now, will wonder always, how so little can tell this man so much.

But John didn't ask, because John loved this particular wizardry. He didn't know he would, that he'd be fascinated, awed, charmed by what Sherlock does, but he was, which was why he did his best to not ask…_how?_

Sometimes Sherlock told him anyway, peacock proud under John's admiration, but the genius could deduce this, too: John loved the mystery of the man, as much as the man himself loved mysteries.

So they didn't now speak of how, just what.

"What?" Sherlock asked, all things at last fully descended, other things still slowly rising. "What will you feed me John Watson?"

At the uptick in Sherlock's breathing—it's one of his deduction tells, most evident when a case is captivating—John's ticked up, too. And then John whispered one word.

"Me."

There were perhaps a dozen ways John could mean that but discerning which he intended was not as magical as it would sound to an outsider. Though they had known one another less than four months, Sherlock Holmes already knew many things about John Watson.

Mostly this was because John wanted to be known, for the first time in his life he wanted to be opened and read…and opened…and opened…_and opened._

John shivered and Sherlock did something few would think him capable and _no one_ would think John would tolerate. Sherlock gathered John into his own warmth…and then lifted him up.

Some call it the bridal carry but John, a year or two down the line, will call it a bit fantastic. Right now he was dead-silent shy about liking it and so he wouldn't say anything at all, nor would he the next time, nor the third, but the fourth time Sherlock did it nearly a year from today, a drunk John Watson would finally break down and say something along the lines of "I fucking love it when you do this Jesus god damn hell yes did you know I wanked myself stupid when you picked me up after I couldn't walk because that jellyfish tried to eat my leg because yeah I did, I had a sorer—is sorer a word?—dick than foot that night and that fucking fish really did a number on my leg are you laughing?"

Anyway, that would be then and this was now and right now Sherlock had some descending and stirring to finish and a bit of heavy-duty deducing to get on with and he wanted to do both in bed because it was warm there and the sheets smelled of them and that was enough, just that reminder that they'd already been together, skin to skin and…

…cock rings forgotten on the table behind them Sherlock Holmes picked up and carried John Watson to their bedroom and if you asked Sherlock he'd tell you that the distance was not long enough, that there was something about holding John that felt…that felt…

Here's the thing: Sherlock never knew he'd want to protect someone. That he would look at a man and know, down to the marrow in his bones, that he'd sacrifice everything for him. It sounded like a grim gift, such knowledge, but instead for Sherlock it was nothing less than the freedom of flight.

_I love you, _Sherlock did not say with words, but with a pause beside their bed, a moment to feel-smell-touch-look and to hold and hold and…

…enough. Without ceremony Sherlock dropped John onto the mattress by dropping himself. He landed on top of his army doctor with an oof, buoyed instantly by John's giggles and reflexively Sherlock stilled to do more than feel-smell-touch-look. He went motionless so he could _remember._ The push of John's laugh-filled belly pressing against his, the pitch of those giggles, the smell of John's breath, which was, it was…oh.

Sherlock shoved his not-diminutive nose right _in_ John's mouth and rumbled, "John Watson we've talked about this."

The good doctor giggled louder, flipped Sherlock onto his back and stretched out on him. "Yes we have. But you haven't stopped doing what I told _you_ to stop doing. If you get to go all serious right at the start of sex so you can fill up your mind palace with the wonder that is me, I get to keep eating the mint lube when you've wandered off and I can't eat _you."_

Sherlock will lose his semi-virginal sensibilities eventually, but only a few months into this love affair he still responds with unexpected intensity to the earthy things John says. So instead of scowling and informing the good doctor that fellating flavoured lube off his own fingers was not the Done Thing (as he will a year from now), Sherlock tugged John close so he could breathe in that minty breath.

Glee-giddy John whispered, "Are you ready for your gift Mr. Holmes?"

In reply Sherlock thought about going serious again because he wanted to keep breathing in that fine sweet breath but instead he murmured small noises of consent and so John reached down, took a medium-sized box from beneath the bed. He handed it to his lover and growled, "Open it, don't deduce it," right about the time Sherlock began shaking the box.

Sherlock pretended he hadn't been shaking the box. As a matter of fact Sherlock primly placed the box on the bed, as if that would prevent John from—

—well he didn't know what he was trying to prevent John from doing, so Sherlock tipped the good doctor off, sat up cross-legged, and opened his gift.

Look, Sherlock knows a lot of things. A seriously, serious _lot_ of things. He can tell you how long it takes a severed hand to become useless for the purposes of fingerprinting. How high an evidence-carrying kangaroo mouse can jump (high enough that when you bend over the leapy thing it socks you right in the eye). And Sherlock can tell you when he began to suspect that maybe he didn't know half as many things as he thought, and that little wonder happened on a temperate Saturday in January, when he opened the present John had bought him.

Because in Sherlock's hand was a fine wooden box. Inside that box were four glittering glass bottles, each filled with a clear fluid. As he gently rocked the box Sherlock recognised the fluid for what it was, because any man regularly getting it up the arse can easily distinguish lubricant from, say, something that isn't lubricant.

_"Now _you can deduce."

Sherlock squinted at the identical bottles and deduced something quick-smart because already he knows how well John knows him. John meant for him to deduce the flavours but the flavours wouldn't be as simple as mint or strawberry. What they would be was—

"Bespoke."

John grinned clear up to his eyebrows and right down to glee-lifted shoulders. "My little super genius."

At that moment Sherlock may have actually glowed. At that moment nothing at all was descending, everything was now rising, and Sherlock Holmes whispered, "I'm hungry."

With a huff of desire John stretched out long on the bed, then ran his hands over his own body.

He shouldn't have done that.

Because watching John touch himself, fingertips drifting chest to belly, hip to…to…to not cock, not, no, just near, careful, slow, almost…well Sherlock went still and staring, hard drive _down._

While John knows many of Sherlock's tells, there's still much to learn, so for a few seconds John stared back at Sherlock…and then he got it. So he stopped touching himself, instead rested a warm hand at Sherlock's bare hip. The good detective made a noise—his very own rebooting sound—breathed deep once, twice, and opened the first pretty bottle.

Another few breathes for sheer drama, and then Sherlock drizzle-dripped four drops of lube around John's nipple.

The good doctor ran his finger through the fluid, swirled it until his nipple peaked. Sherlock made a tiny gear-grinding kind of noise and then bent low and sniffed.

_Dark._

Yes, dark has a scent and that scent was this. Sherlock scraped bottom teeth gently along John's skin until they caught on his nipple and then Sherlock hummed, latched on, and _sucked._

Dark…bitter…strong…

Sherlock nosed John's nipple, scented rising goosebumps and the prickle of sparse hairs, breathed deep, then deeper, detected…

…sweetness…a faint hint of something elusive…

…he sucked again, groaned the way he does when he gets any part of John in his mouth, and there it was…cream…and was that…oh. _Oh._

_Caffé mocha._

Sherlock pulled away, blinked, tilted his head. John had said these were for him, except Sherlock didn't drink terrible, awful, coffee-wasting chocolate-flavoured coffee, as a matter of fact he sanctimoniously teases John about—

"Oh."

John grinned as Sherlock finally got it.

It had been just a few days after they became Them, their relationship so young it could be recorded easily in hours. It was those early days when Sherlock was sure he could close his eyes and yet still know exactly where in any room John was.

It was that day in October and Dimmock had almost got everything right except he'd done one dumb thing and got everything all wrong, but Sherlock hadn't, no of course not, so he was crowing his own brilliance, prancing around the busy Met cafeteria as if on a floodlighted stage. Then right in the middle of intoning something about lipstick-smudged eyeglasses and torn envelopes Sherlock just _shut right on up_ and turned.

John would never know how his lover had heard him gasp. And he'd never know exactly what he himself had done to cause the steaming caffé mocha to splash across the back of his hand.

No, what John did know was that Sherlock had dropped the attitude and then—coming close—his head, bowing it over John's hand.

Right there in front of four constables, three personal assistants, two detective sergeants, and a jaw-dropped Dimmock, Sherlock had gently licked his lover's burned skin, then blown across it. He'd done it three times, never taking his eyes off John's, not caring that every other eye was on them.

In the end that night had turned into a long one, and not because of any case.

And now, months after that day, the good detective nibbled delicately at a nipple, looked through his lashes up at John and said softly, "I remember."

John twirled a dark curl round his finger. "No one's ever looked at me like that where others could see."

_I will. I always will._

Just then Sherlock started to do that thing he was a little bit forbidden to do, he was going to get all moody-serious, so John plucked up the bottle of lube that was now shy four drops and dropped it to the floor. "One down, three to go. Now you know what you're deducing, so deduce. I double dare you."

Sherlock raised his head. Rolled his eyes. Grinned. Daring him didn't work. It never worked. Except the times it did.

Four chilly drops on John's other nipple from the next bottle and Sherlock went still, waiting.

So John swirled the fluid until pink skin glistened, and had only just slipped his finger into his own mouth when Sherlock surrounded that delicate nipple with lips and teeth and began sucking.

He quickly settled into long, contented pulls.

_Bright._

Sherlock huffed dreamily, made the tiniest movement of hips against the mattress. He lip-lip-lipped at the little bud in his mouth and…

…tart…fresh…

He knew that taste, knew it. Tangy, sharp, almost sweet but no, not quite not…ah.

"Lemons."

John hummed high.

It was three weeks ago. They'd spent an endless day sifting through eighteen thousand boxed-up basement-resident papers, looking for the single plain sheet that would clear a titled pearl thief of murder. Oh she'd go away for stealing well over a million pounds of jewels, but that was a good sight better than standing trial for a ten-year-old triple homicide.

Everyone had said the evidence couldn't be found before the thief was extradited to Italy the next morning. They all said the search was a waste of time, even the pearl thief.

"We'll find it," John had wheezed at three in the afternoon when he and Sherlock opened the first box. "We're nearly there," he'd sneezed two hours later, after they'd gone through the first five hundred papers. "You said ids here, ids here," he affirmed with great faith at eight pm, so deeply congested with an allergy to titled paper mites he'd entirely lost use of his Ts.

"John, go home before you expire. I'll finish."

John had pretended to be deaf and opened the next box with one hand, while dumping straight into his mouth the powdered contents of a Lemsip packet with the other. He washed the cold-medicine down with cold coffee and rasped, "I'b fine."

Twelve hours, two more lemony Lemsips, and one croaky shout of victory later John waved the duchess-clearing document in his hand.

And two hours after that they were at home, spooned in a steaming-hot bath, Sherlock cradling John between his legs, gently wiping his sweetheart's dust-laden skin down with a flannel, over and over and over, until the good doctor's lemony breath eased and he dozed against Sherlock's chest.

And now, weeks after that day, John ran his hand over his lover's cheek. "No one's ever looked after me like that."

_I will. I always will._

Again Sherlock tiptoed toward solemn, craving the already-heady ritual of tucking into his mind palace the fineness that was John, but good Dr. Watson steered him toward something more earthy.

"You'll never get the next one…"

Sherlock began the labour-intensive process of rolling his eyes, making rude noises with his mouth, and marshalling genius-type words that would properly convey his complete certainty that he would, indeed, 'get' the next one and if—

"…but if you do, I'll do _you._ In a special way."

Sherlock's eye-roll ceased so abruptly he actually sprained something. ("Rub it," Sherlock would whine later. "I can't Sherlock, the sprain's actually inside your _head.")_

John then dropped lubricant bottle two to the floor, plucked up the next one.

Sherlock took it from his hand and drizzle-dripped a drop on John's sternum, one high on his abs, and one on his belly button. That bottle of lubricant then joined its kin on the carpet then Sherlock watched and Sherlock waited.

Mindful of his captivated audience, good doctor Watson took his own sweet time running an index finger through the glistening drop of lube on his breast bone, then running slower still, down to meet the one skin-warm drop high on his abdomen.

Rapt, Sherlock blinked slow, slower, slowest as John lifted that slick, _slick_ finger then touched it tenderly to the tip of his belly button. Then, in tight circles and to the soundtrack of his own breathy moans, John stroked that tiny nub.

Teetering on the brink of rebooting, maybe kind of a little bit barking, or just going offline entirely, Sherlock keened in quiet desperation.

John took pity. With a little grunt of need he let his hand fall to the sheets, arched his back, and whispered, "Time to eat."

Hormone-drugged and dreamy, Sherlock nodded, bowed his head over John's body.

And then Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth and started to feed.

_Two more chapters and two more lubricants to go…_


	3. Chapter 3

Lick.

Lick.

Slower than slow…lick. Lick. _Think._

Narrow eyes. Nose at John's salt-sweet skin. Lick again.

Slide-wriggle down.

Sniff, sniff, _sniff_ at John's upper belly. Nip delectable flesh, lick, swirl tongue, pause. _Think._

Slide-wriggle, then settle with a grunt between John's thighs and—

—ooooh. There, wonderfully there: A button, a button, a delicious little belly button, how Sherlock loved John's seductive wee nub.

Suck, suck, _suck_ lube from John's magnificent outtie. They moaned together, discovering gleeful that that, right there, was sexual for them both.

Another nibble tender at delicate button flesh, an insistent _push_ of tongue as if Sherlock could penetrate that place, another symphony of united moans and Sherlock filled head and tongue and nose with an intense evocative odor of pine and tar…

Sherlock lapped and moaned and _sucked_ gentle at that bit of flesh and he tasted whiskey and smoke…

Sherlock pushed his cock against the bed again and, after another thrust of tongue against tight-furled button flesh, he stuttered in a deep breath, then whispered it out.

"Lapsang souchong tea."

John grinned, pushed his cock against Sherlock's chest.

It had been five days before they'd became lovers and they'd thought they knew where they stood.

They were flatmates of course, adventurers clearly, solvers of crime most surely. They were companionable puzzle pieces that had fit together so easily they didn't question the rightness of their union, but neither did they yet know its depth.

Then John went and made himself tea.

No, seriously, John made _himself_ tea.

It had been the day before Sherlock went to Glasgow for a case. It had been the day before everything changed, it had primed the pump for what would follow and all John had been trying to do was god damn relax already.

At the time John didn't wonder why he was so tense his muscles were in twitchy knots. No, as far as John Watson was concerned, he was giddy at the idea of spending a week alone, in a clean and quiet flat.

So giddy that on the night before Sherlock was leaving John's shoulder ached, his limp had returned, and he was cranky and foul and tired.

Which was why John thought he'd try that thing a mate had told him about once: Draw a bath as hot as you can stand, toss in a brace of tea bags, get in for a long soak, and Bob's your relaxed-muscle uncle.

It began well: He bought a new tea he'd always wanted to try, tossed a handful of bags into a full tub, then clambered in after, the water so hot he groaned his way down into it.

And that right there was the problem.

Within seconds of John moaning his slow way into that steaming tub a kitchen-close Sherlock was so distracted by the breathless, panting _noises_ coming from his loo (the only one with a bath) that he put _two _drops of capsaicin into the baby food experiment instead of _one,_ then rubbed his _eye,_ and by the time he'd banged open the loo door, inflamed in more ways than one, _everything_ smelled smoky-strange and there it suddenly was, John's flaccid penis bobbing up through the murky brew in the tub and Sherlock stared as if just introduced to the existence of penises and then, pepper-infused eye leaking, cock problematically thinking of stirring, Sherlock had groused, "I'm going to pack now," and proceeded to slam the loo door so dramatically it hit him in his own arse.

Thirteen weeks later and curled warm together in bed, one of them said, "That's when it started."

"It began before that," the other replied.

"Weeks before."

"Months before."

"It started," Sherlock purred, "the day we met."

John shoved the third bottle of lube onto the floor, was contemplating shoving other things into other places, when Sherlock plucked up from the pretty box the last unopened, specially-made lubricant and held it between them. "This one's your favourite," he murmured, "Because you know it'll be mine."

_How can so little tell this man so much?_

John did not ask that. Maybe John would never ask. But John _will_ tell.

"I want you to love it. From today I want that scent to make you think of me."

The scent of things is often vital to Sherlock's work. He pushes his nose into places most won't, sniffs deep of things from which others turn away. Because so many times a thread is found, a connection made, simply because he's scented something in a place that something ought not to be.

Yet for Sherlock, scent's just a means to an end.

John, on the other hand, loves to breathe deep of things—a steaming caffè mocha, a rich summer wine—but the thing he most loves to nose about in sweet, lazy indulgence, is Sherlock's body.

They are busy men, these two, what with all the crime fighting and daring-do. So some night's there's little energy for sliding cock into mouth, or for spreading thighs and sliding that cock somewhere else. Yet for John there's always time before sleep steals them, to press his face into Sherlock's neck and breathe in the sweetness of hair or skin.

Come morning, even if there isn't time to _come,_ there's time for John to wriggle under the duvet and press his face between sleep-warm thighs, breathing deep the musk of sweat and heat that is Sherlock.

Which is all by way of saying that John is teaching Sherlock to sniff-scent-smell things for the pleasure of it. And so for a few long moments Sherlock didn't open the last bottle of lube, no, instead he blinked slow at the slick spots on John's body…

…chocolate and coffee…

…lemon and tea…

…then flicked his gaze down to John's swollen cock and, grinding his own against the bedclothes, Sherlock nosed at the hair framing John's erection, breathing in the alchemy of _after,_ the scent their bodies had made together last night, wondering at its absolute rightness. Then wondered what they would make now.

Wriggling himself low between his lover's legs, Sherlock lifted the last bottle, pressed it against nose and mouth, then slid it down, down, along philtrum, lips, and then…

"Oh."

…into his mouth.

Fellating that conveniently cock-sized bottle, Sherlock watched through lashes as John watched him. And he said without saying it: _this is you John, this is us, this is what I want to give and get, pleasure offered, pleasure taken, all night, every day, John, John, oh— _

"—god now."

It sounded like a command, like begging, and of course it was both and maybe this was the first time one of them would do that to the other, order and plead, take control and surrender.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, opening the bottle with his teeth, grinning feral with the cap clenched between them.

John giggled again, plucked the silver thing from Sherlock's mouth about the time Sherlock drizzle-dripped too much of that precious fluid over John's dripping prick. Then, eyes closed, filling nose and throat, lung and brain with _scent,_ Sherlock flicked out his tongue, tasting air. And there it was: a hint, the merest suggestion, the tiniest _clue_ of what was inches from that squirming tongue.

Sugar.

But it was more than that, of course it was, because John Watson does not mess around. When John Watson decides to do a thing he damn well does it _right._

So when John chose to celebrate falling in love with his flatmate by gifting him with bespoke lubricants, well the good doctor paid far too much to a reclusive Sussex chemist who sold her rare wares via Amazon, and he did so because he understood that in the act of giving Sherlock something uncommon he was saying without words _I love you, you uncommon man. I love you so giddy much I had to tell Mrs. Hudson the rent's going to be late because I bought bespoke anal lube. _That_ is how damn well much I love you._

So of course there was to more to that lube than _sweet._

Another slide, a wriggle, and all that shifting smeared lubricant along John's cock, across Sherlock's throat and chin and mouth and he tasted…

…a hint of wood…

…floral…

…something pungent, deep, rich…

"Honey."

John hummed low with delight, the sound buzzing through his body and right up into Sherlock's, who answered with a hum of his own.

A bare-naked colony of two, a warm, bed-bound hive, they buzz-buzz-buzzed their pleasure at each other, and then John Watson began dancing for his mate, if wriggles and giggles can be called a dance and oh they certainly can. He spoke with his body in tiny thrusts, in open-mouthed sighs, in two hands tugging Sherlock up.

Sherlock danced right back with a sinuous crawl along his sweetheart's flesh, with growls and grunts and greedy kisses, and he thought of all the sweet places such a sweet lube could go, and those thoughts made him _buzzier._ When Sherlock's commotion went from greedy growls to needy keens John slid fingers into Sherlock's hair, and whispered against his mouth, "I promised."

…_I'll do you. In a special way…_

Then John wriggled and squirmed and moved on that bed until Sherlock instinctively clamped his legs tight around John's insinuating thigh. And went still.

Shy.

Shy.

In bed Sherlock's still sometimes shy, so the good detective did nothing at first, just panted prettily, waiting.

John let him.

Because waiting was tinder for Sherlock's fire. Waiting to see what would happen next blazed his brain bright with conjecture and curiosity.

So John made him wait. Then, with a small flex of a strong thigh, John said softly, "Show me."

Not shy.

Not shy.

Suddenly very much not shy.

Sherlock may have vestiges of a virginal sensibility, still going flush-cheeked at some of John's ribald sweet nothings, but this occasional delicacy is more often subsumed under a tidal wave of sexual unselfconsciousness the likes of which Three Continents Watson has never before seen.

Because John's lover will fuck almost anywhere, do almost anything, give it or take it in pretty much any part of his body, and he'll do it silently or at volume, whatever John happens to be hissing or crooning for at the time.

So right then Sherlock raised up on his hands, tossed back his shaggy head, and eyes tight-shut he humped John's leg like there was no tomorrow—and he let the world know about it. The world, in this case, being one small man sighing even smaller, sweeter words. "Yes…yes…oh angel, sweetheart, love…"

Over his own cacophony Sherlock heard these endearments, prompting him to grander noises, more feverish motions. He wrapped his legs tight around John's thigh and the feel of that hard-soft muscle beneath him, that moving, pleading, _needing_ man…

"John," Sherlock moaned to the rafters. _"John,"_ he growled and rode and sighed.

Then Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's chest and the sweet smell was everywhere. He felt like he was drowning in honey, that it was in his mouth and lungs, a perfect oxygen, and while the mocha and the lemon and the tea had been their past, this scent would be their future, there would be so many memories attached to the smell of it and this was merely the first.

When slick, honey-scented fingers slid into Sherlock's mouth, he was done for, body and brain going hot and bright until he was coming and coming over John's thigh and belly and hip.

...

Sometimes John doesn't care if he gets off.

Oh usually he wants to, sure he does, but sometimes Sherlock's feedback is so lavish, his body so responsive, that John finds all the pleasure he needs in being part of Sherlock's pleasure.

So right after Sherlock came? Right after he fell boneless on the bed, content? Well John had no intention of doing much of anything, including rein in his giggles, rise up, or dispatch his erection.

Sherlock had other plans.

Rising slow, straddling, flipping round then wriggling back, his copious bum hovering over John's face and his face over John's cock, Sherlock said, without even a hint of shyness, "I'm going to suck, suck, suck John. Until you come."

And though John buzzed his assent to this, though he danced with wriggles and squirms, Sherlock did not do one important little thing: He did not suck.

Which was kind of all right with John. Because you try having the full eclipse of Sherlock's rump in _your_ face and see if you don't get fine and distracted by its succulent expanse.

For here is where Sherlock carries his physical excess, here is where—John will learn—Sherlock gains weight first and loses it last. John will spend a lifetime valiantly struggling against having a favourite part of Sherlock's body, always finding that such a fetish—"I'm an arse man" "I like legs"—breaks people down into dehumanising pieces and John's just never liked doing that.

Well give the good doctor a gold star for effort but John _does _favour a certain part of Sherlock and bloody buggering hell it was the gloriously looming behind above him, making him breathe fast, then faster still, until finally Sherlock slid his mouth over John's cock and as Sherlock began to rock, John began to keen.

Know this: Before John, Sherlock didn't know he could do this, that he could _please_ someone. So when patient John, still John, _quiet_ John makes noise, Sherlock _replies._ He moans theatrically, grandly, as if about to come. The noises are lavish, silly-grand, and when Sherlock makes them loud, then louder still, well it's John who is well and truly done for.

And the only reason the good doctor didn't come and come and come in his sweetheart's mouth was because, for the first time though not the last, Sherlock wanted John all over him, so Sherlock didn't swallow, oh no, he let John come messy and warm and _everywhere,_ and then Sherlock buzzed and _danced_ against his mate's slick skin, until no matter where Sherlock sucked or licked on his own body later he tasted and tasted and tasted everywhere…of John.

_One more chapter. (And by the way, there is a sorta-honey lubricant (drop down menu) here: tinyurl dot com / queenbee-sh, link provided by the wondrous Chocolamousse!)_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke long before John, though it should have been a close thing.

Because here's something most people don't know about Sherlock: He's a zombie after a big meal. Meal here is loosely defined as half a banoffee pie, three packages of allsorts, or four kinds of exquisitely-flavoured sexual lubricants licked and sucked from the sweetest skin in the world.

Yet wake before John Sherlock did, mostly because he was breathless and half hard from having spent the last hour dreaming of honey lube slicked fine over one particular place on John's body. And _oh…_

(Shy)

(Shy)

…how would something so sweet taste _there _on John? Right there, where Sherlock had read (oh yes, he'd been reading a lot lately) the human body is exquisitely sensitive, most especially to the wet, warmth of the human tongue?

(Even in his head Sherlock won't yet think the words rimming, arsehole, or 'John I want to lick you out so badly I actually accidentally a little bit barked in public the last time I daydreamed about it.')

Right, well Sherlock was wide awake now and he found that his dream had suddenly given him some oomf in the not-shy department. He would do it. He would ask John if he wanted to try something new and they would have a nice slow shower and then they'd go to bed, and then John would present himself for the application of a smorgasbord of lubricants and Sherlock would lick, and lick and oh—

"—god."

Sherlock jumped at the muffled sound of his own voice.

Muffled? _Muffled? _Oh. Right.

Sherlock wriggled out from deep under the duvet, where he'd apparently fallen asleep after sucking John off.

The good detective turned himself around, stretched out next to his thirteen-weeks-and-four-days lover, and he opened a whisper-filled mouth, ready to be not-shy. Then John curled tighter on himself, mouth slightly open, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, and Sherlock closed his mouth, going just a little soft round his edges.

Because while Sherlock may be new to loving John, he was not new to caretaking; every day John taught him exactly what that looked like. So instead of waking his lover, instead of being not-shy and asking for something he would tomorrow be too self-conscious to talk about, the good detective rose quiet from their bed.

He took his time.

If Sherlock was good and he was lucky, he'd wake beside John Watson all the days of his life. But Sherlock knows he's rarely good and he's never been lucky (except once), so right now he needed to take his time to see lash shadows and hear soft breathing and to remember. Yet even in sleep John Watson would scatter Sherlock's over-somber thoughts: He laughed.

It was really just a small, back-of-the-throat kind of noise. One you'd imagine from a dreaming child, not a man, and so help him Sherlock went completely soft round his edges, waiting for more. There was the faintest skitter of a giggle a minute later, then long silence. Finally Sherlock tugged the duvet to John's chin, at last rose, and then Sherlock went about the business of washing up.

He took his time.

Because yes John's teaching him many things and so this is new too, this touching his own skin and remembering where John had touched, what he did there, what he left there.

Sometimes, when Sherlock goes to get out of bed after they make love, John throws his leg over his lover's thighs and then the duvet over their heads and he _breathes._

"What?" Sherlock had asked that first time. John's reply had been another deep breath and so Sherlock had huffed curious in their humid cave then, fingers darning in the dark over John's smiling mouth, he'd said again, "What?"

"That's you and me, love. It's spit and sweat and come." Again John breathed deep. "It's the scent our body heat makes of all that glorious mess."

That had been the first time. It was still early days and so there had only been a few more, but there _had_ been more and though Sherlock's instinct was to clean up after sex, he learned that if he didn't, if they fell asleep covered in one another…well sometimes John woke hard, sighing Sherlock's name before he'd even opened his eyes.

And oh that was gorgeous.

So Sherlock took his time washing up, and maybe he wasn't quite as thorough as he would ordinarily be, and maybe he started to wonder about the future, and quite possibly he thought about hoping and therefore planning for that future, and it is fairly likely that he focused on one small portion of that future, and naked in that loo—the lights off so as not to wake John in the other room—Sherlock Holmes went and got himself an idea.

...

In his dreams John Watson can type.

"John."

Eighty words a minute, at least, pounding away like some sort of keyboard-crazed dynamo.

"John."

His fingers find the Q and the Z and the 6 with precise, unerring skill.

"John."

He tosses off emails, hammers out blogs, he even types up reports for the Met.

"John."

With dashingly dexterous fingers, John handles a computer keyboard the way he handles—

"I need you."

John sat bolt upright, wide awake. Then he blinked, confused. It was night. And quiet. He didn't know what time it was or what woke him, he was about to—

_John?_

_There._ A sound. Nearly subsonic. Coming from somewhere close.

John levitated out of the bed, stood on tip-toe, skin prickling cold. He squinted into curtains-drawn darkness and held his breath.

There was not one single sound.

John waited.

Nothing.

John got off his toes.

Nothing.

John tilted his head in case that helped.

It helped.

Because now he could hear breathing. No, not breathing. Moaning. No, not moaning. Grunting. Grunt-moaning really. Not a good kind.

_Sherlock?_

John can do subsonic too, apparently.

"John!"

Already so used to listening to the soft waft of dust particles the good doctor jumped clean out of his skin.

Then the doctor-soldier-221b-resident in him steeled his spine and John dived toward the pitch-dark en suite loo, slamming the light on.

Two shrieks at the searing brightness and out the light went.

Now completely light- _and_ night-blind, John inched his way toward the lingering after-image dancing in front of his eyes: An entirely nude Sherlock stretched out in an empty tub.

_"Sherlock."_

_"John."_

John crab-walked forward, sensed his sweetie's extended arm, grabbed a flailing hand with both his own.

"What's wrong, are you sick?"

Sherlock whimpered.

John reached out—

"Ouch!"

—poked Sherlock in the eye, then pressed a palm to his forehead.

"What's wrong? Is it the lube? Did you have too much? Is it your stomach, do you feel like you need to vomit? Maybe you need to—"

Following a tug, John tripped to his knees tubside, had his hand placed low, on something warm and weirdly hard-soft. "What the hell is that?"

In the dark John saw the light.

"Oh Sherlock no."

Sherlock moved John's hand this way and that.

"Oh Sherlock, _why?"_

Sherlock made a sound. Sherlock knew it was a whimper but if pressed he would define it as a high-pitched, squealy little clearing of the throat. "I thought I'd…maybe it would…I didn't want you to get bored in a few years."

John tipped forward, ready to apply his forehead to Sherlock's temple in an _oh you big silly git_ kind of way but—

"Ouch!"

—though Sherlock's chin isn't pointy that didn't stop it from hurting when it was shoved in John's eye.

"John," Sherlock grunted, then tried for the eighteenth time in twenty-four minutes to wank himself to flaccidity, succeeding only in making himself painfully harder.

"Don't touch it, love, you're just making it worse."

Sherlock not-whimpered again. Wondered if this was the last erection he would ever have. Sherlock didn't want it to be the last erection he'd ever have because Sherlock had grown fond of his penis in these months with John. He'd only just got the thing up and running, so to speak, and did not wish to lose it.

Though not by nature a panicker, Sherlock thought that about now—at the thought of losing a perfectly good penis because it was being strangled blue by a metal cock ring—was a good time to panic.

So he did.

"No Sherlock, breathe."

When Sherlock panics, sometimes he doesn't breathe.

"Don't panic, you can't panic."

Sherlock continued to panic.

"Seriously love, please exhale before you pass out."

Then again…

"Then again, if you pass out you're bound to go soft so—"

Sherlock whimpered outright and tried to wank with _John's_ hand. His cock got harder and maybe turned a bit purple, but no one knew that because they were still panicking in the dark.

"I have to put the light on Sherlock."

Sherlock tried wanking with both their hands. If he did not relieve the pressure in his dick soon he was pretty sure his eyes were going to protrude from his head.

"Stop it Sherlock and just breathe and stay calm can you stay calm for me and not panic because I'm going to panic if you do so please don't just be calm okay just…let me put the light on just let me…we have to get you soft before…Sherlock, _Sherlock."_ John put a dramatic full stop to his run on sentence in the form of a panted breath.

Sherlock let John go because the scariest thing that had probably ever happened to him was John getting scared.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his voice as small and soft as his penis was not.

"I know love, I know. Breathe. Are you breathing? The dark is making me deaf, are you—"

"Ouch!"

"Good. That's good. Now just keep doing that, okay? We'll take care of this systematically. We're going to brain our way through it. All right?"

John's voice did not calm Sherlock down.

John's soft patting of any part of him he could find in the dark did not calm Sherlock down.

Going light headed from blood loss to his brain did not calm Sherlock down.

No, what calmed Sherlock Holmes down right then—and by that we mean got his hands off his cock and his breathing mostly back to normal so he could get it all huffy with indignation—was John's grammar.

_"Brain?_ Did you say we're going to _brain_ our way through this, John?"

John was about to insist this was not the time to be fussy about syntax but the good doctor wasn't sure syntax meant what he thought it meant so maybe he should just go back to simple soothing.

Then John got an idea.

"Sherlock, my fair and succulent love, do you remember the sex we had on our one month anniversary?"

Sherlock stopped scowling, blinked bright eyes into the dark, then said, "Yes. I came twice that morning because you let me put my—"

"Do you remember what we talked about after we got off the kitchen table and you were all bandy-legged and giddy?"

Though his ringed cock was now so hard he was sure he could _literally_ put someone's eye out, Sherlock grinned beatific. "You said I was the best arse you'd ever had."

In the act of beginning to say something else entirely, John stopped saying that and then said something else. "Oh yeah."

Despite the fact that they really ought to have been calling Lestrade for bolt cutters, both smiled dopey into the dark.

"You also said I was the _only _arse you'd ever had. Or would." Sherlock said this with a level of pride that would imply he'd beat all the other arses out in some sort of wins-John-at-the-end arse race. Then again, he really rather had.

John grinned, giddy. "Yeah, I did. I remember that you—"

John cut himself off, remembering that he wasn't trying to remember how good it had been watching himself slide into Sherlock. John shook his head to clear it of daydreams and hormones. He had a cock to care for.

"Right, yes, I said that too. But do you remember what _you_ said right after your leg kind of went out?"

Sherlock frowned into the dark. The dark did not see it. Sherlock bit his lips. If he didn't answer John, he wouldn't have to lie.

"You got to talking about another time your knees gave out, during that case you had before we met, the one where the twelve-year-old violin virtuoso fooled you into—"

"I'm aware of our conversation John."

John slipped from his knees to his bum, made himself more comfortable tubside.

"Then a couple weeks later, after we snuck out of that criminal's airing cupboard, you told me about that case with no client, the one in the abandoned building where you never even got as far as figuring out what you were supposed—"

"I know what we talked about _John."_

John tipped his head back, felt it land solidly against Sherlock's shoulder. He idly wondered why Sherlock was in the tub.

"And then I forget why you told me about that case where Lestrade saw the trap door and the lost diamond before you did and had the criminals in cuffs about the time—"

Sherlock sat up so fast John was propelled upright.

"And the point of this stroll down memory lane is what exactly?"

John hummed inscrutably in the dark.

Sherlock frowned un-inscrutably, turned so as to vent invective in John's general direction, and was stopped by the nice sharp sound of metal striking porcelain.

The good detective's brows lofted. He looked down as if he could see his now-limp penis and the empty cock ring lying in the tub in the very dark dark and softly said, "Oh."

...

Two hours later they were slumped in bed, laptops on their bellies.

His face lit lurid by the computer's glow Sherlock mumbled, "That's not how it works you know."

John paused in his typing to hunt for the Z. He always had to hunt for the Z. "I know."

Sherlock continued typing like the wind. He never had to look for the Z. "What do you know?"

John daydreamed about his typing dream. He wished he could type like that. He was pretty sure dream John typed even faster than Sherlock. "That even though talking about crimes you didn't solve made you soft, solving crimes doesn't make you hard."

Sherlock frowned, resentful.

John paused in his typing to hunt for the X. He always had to hunt for the X. "Stop being resentful you big baby. You're not that difficult to read you know."

Sherlock scowled loudly, looked off into the distance.

John gave up, put his laptop aside. "I'd still love you even if solving crimes gave you a stiffy."

Sherlock closed his laptop smartly and all went dark. _Stiffy._ He didn't like that word either. It was inelegant.

"I don't like that word John, it's inel—" Sherlock shut himself up. Sherlock put his laptop on the bedside table. Sherlock turned to John. And Sherlock said soft and small. "Say it again."

There in the dark John reached out—

"Ouch!"

—poked Sherlock in the nostril, then cupped his cheek.

"I love you, Sherlock."

John grinned.

"And guess what?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Loving you gives me a stiffy."

To exactly no one's surprise they soon found one another a little bit more than…half-cocked.

_The End. __Along with SweetLateJuliet's post debacle, this story was also a bit inspired by my six hundredth reading of Hyacinth_sky747's utterly glorious madness called "What to Do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal," which I love. Also I'm grateful to lisaryanz1oh1 who asked if the next "Feeding Sherlock" could include red wine and though I didn't end up using that flavour, that's when I knew what John ordered from Amazon. Thank you so much Lisa!_


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